no place like my home

there is a huge difference between having visitors before you are a parent and after. last year when our guests came my house was not only spotless, but i even provided amenities for them, think: a redneck version of the best western. on their freshly laundered 150 thread count sheets i placed 2 washcloths and 2 bath towels – making sure i cut off as many of the 100 loosely attached strings as possible. for each guest i would provide a shampoo, conditioner, a bar of soap and a mouthwash. those toiletries happen to have been collector items from t.j.’s job requiring a 3 month long tour of every holliday inn express in the tri-state area, and I felt that they were the perfect touch to make our guests feel at home (because everyone has 2oz.-use-it-once-then-it’s-gone toiletries at home, right?) in the morning we served steaming hot coffee – well… it was steaming hot because after pouring the tepid coffee from our dying bunn coffee maker we nuked each person’s cup ‘o joe in the microwave for 12 seconds. the coffee was served before and during the breakfast t.j. always made for our guests: egg beaters and turkey bacon served on a whole-grain english muffin with low-sodium, calcium-fortified orange juice. t.j. is a bit of a health-nut and I’m assuming he felt that if there was one personal touch he could provide for our overweight friends and family it would be showing them how disgusting a healthy meal can be.

after breakfast we would move on to our planned activity of the day; the candy factory, a tour of downtown chicago, the sand dunes at lake michigan, golfing, fishing, bowling, getting drunk, etc… we always had every minute of every day planned out and we always had exhausted guests come day’s end. subconsciously, maybe we were trying to ensure such a level of exhaustion that they wouldn’t notice on their descent to their sleeping quarters downstairs that our basement is actually chilly enough to hang meat in. then, come sunrise we would start all over again.

now, fast forward to this year as i am now a mother of an 8 month old. the 150 thread-count sheets may be clean when you get here. if you have any piercings, beware: my  nose ring didn’t fare well after being drug through the gamut that is our old teal bath towel. forget any toiletries? you can use whatever is in my shower, or there is a walgreens right around the corner.  need coffee? you can get it at mcdonalds – while you are there I’ll take an egg mcmuffin with a hash brown. coffee, black. the plan for the weekend? you can do whatever the hell you’d like to, but I’ll be here chasing my now mobile infant around the house making sure she doesn’t get into any of the crap you’ve left laying around my living room. what’s that? you were cold last night? I have a zippered hoodie in the dirty clothes hamper if you want. just keep digging ‘till you find it. it’s the green one.

dirty blonde

i recently re-told this story and forgot how funny it was.

it was summer and i decided to go get my car washed on my lunch break at work. i was talking to t.j. on the phone as i pulled up to the entrance of the car wash - i'm sure it was a deep conversation about excel spreadsheets - so i was off in boringland not really paying attention. i do remember seeing a huge sign giving detailed instructions on how to drive through the car wash. psh - i'm university educated... pretty sure i can handle a car wash. for whatever reason, though, i did not notice that it was one of those wash bays where you have to perfectly line up your tires and drive your car up onto those rack-thingys. so, as i slowly pulled in i noticed that my car felt slightly like a bowling ball going down a very close-walled bumper ally. but, i had a SUV now... maybe the width of my car just makes a car wash feel differently. as i had just got the tail-end of my car into the wash area, i started looking all over for the miniature traffic light that tells you when to slow down and stop so that the washing can begin. no traffic light. hmm. then all of a sudden - VARRROOOOMMMMMM!!! - the car wash starts up. but, wait - there was no light to tell me to stop. now it's a guessing game as to where i am in the wash cycle to figure out where to pull up my car next.  in the past i had enjoyed the lullaby and relaxation that an automatic car wash provides. not today. i was suffering from severe anxiety. i was furiously searching for the next "station" to see where my car should be. although panicky, i knew i had to remain calm because i didn't want to just piss away my 8 bucks. so imagine, if you will for a second, that you are the car next in line and you happen to notice my car's intermittent brake lights - ON, OFF, ON, OFF, ON, OFF... just cruising right along through the car wash. "oh - look... there's that tri-colored foam... i think i should be up there." "oh... ok - here comes the big roller-thingys... i better stop here." and on it went. in the back of my mind i couldn't help but think how lucky they were to have someone such as myself as a customer - but what about those less-fortunate people in the brain department? i wonder how many people didn't receive the great car wash this place offered because they weren't able to figure out the different stations like i was succeeding in doing. but then - uh-oh... what in the... next thing you know i am emerging from the car wash (that happens to be located at the busiest gas station in the tri-state area) and there are soapy suds ALL over my vehicle. after my wiper blades made the second pass i could see people looking at me. my car couldn't have been more soapy. i then flipped my rear wiper blades on and glanced into my rear-view mirror. the car wash was still running, but with no car in it. damnit. i must have skipped a station. i slowly turned towards the entrance of the gas station and parked in the front row giving everyone a close up of the super sudsy spectacle that my car had become. as i got out of my vehicle i heard the roar of the big blower fan and couldn't help but think to myself, "that should be me in there right now."
"um, excuse me - i think your car wash is broke" i scoffed to the kid working the counter.
"ok. what's the problem, ma'am?"
i turned and pointed towards my car - which now showed the effects of the sun baking the soap onto the black exterior.
"well, obviously the rinse cycle is not working properly."
"huh... that's a first. are you sure?"
"can you see my car sitting right there? it's the one with suds all over it. so, yes - i'm pretty sure."
he then tells me to pull my car back to the entrance of the car wash. as i'm waiting for him to meet me with the magic code to bypass payment, i notice the car in front of me gliding with ease through the various wash stations. no intermittent brake lights. it was right then that i noticed the track that the tires were resting on. i proceeded to laugh so hard i peed myself. my next trip through the car wash was not spent frantically searching for the perfect place to stop for the rinse cycle. instead i spent my time googling interior car cleaners trying to find someone who had the capability to remove urine from the driver's side seat.

or you could shut your face

“are your feet always that big, or is it because you are pregnant?” asked my friend’s new girlfriend approximately 6 minutes after our first introduction. “is your mouth always that big, or is it because you are a bitch?” ok, so i didn’t say that. instead i replied with a tight-jawed, “i’m not sure. I haven’t worn shoes in 6 weeks.” pregnancy and first-time motherhood somehow transforms your friends, family, coworkers and the girl at the sunglass hut kiosk into the love children of ann landers and joan rivers. put whiskey into her bottle to help her sleep? um, no. she can wait until she’s 13 to drink herself into deep slumber just like I did. shave her head because it will make her hair grow in faster? um, nope again... she can wait until that whiskey hits to make that bad decision for herself. generic chatter about weather and local sports teams has been replaced with everyone’s main concern: rozzy’s core body temperature.
“aren’t you going to put a coat on her?”
“isn’t it too warm for sleeves?”
“should she have longer socks on?”
“you should probably get rid of the blanket.”
“GET A HAT ON THAT POOR GIRL’S HEAD!” yelled my neighbor from her 2nd story bedroom window. “PUT A BAG ON YOURS!”
ok, so i didn’t say that either. instead i expelled some sort of nervous verbal vomit that included, “um” and “ok” and “thanks.” nothing seems to be off-limits. i never heard about so many peoples’ near-death experiences during childbirth as i did when I was 8 months pregnant. even the most trivial things become open to debate - take my baby shower registry: after researching for months, i compiled a damn good registry - only to find out that it was all unnecessary. well... unnecessary according to my husband’s grandmother who apparently raised my mother-in-law with nothing more than a stick and pair of tits. she so boldly informed me:
“when my mother raised all 10 of her children, she didn’t have fancy stuff like breast pumps, monitors, and bottle warmers.”

“well, they also didn’t have preparation H back then. After 10 children she probably would’ve found that a bit beneficial.”
and, yes... I did say that.

me too white

rozzy will not win the gerber baby contest. i've even almost stopped my daily voting for her because luck like that just doesn't run in the family. in 1992 i won an ace of base c.d. from a local radio station.
"Z93 - WHO'S THIS?!?!"
"um.. larissa."
"LAAAAARISSA! WHERE YOU CALLING FROM?!?!"
"um... west carrollton."
"YOU OUT PARTYING ON THIS WILD & CRAZY FRIDAY NIGHT?!?!"
"um.... yes! YES I AM!"
i was 12 and sitting in my room with my dad eating donuts (which happens to be how my dad gets down on the weekends.) another time i won the game 'operation' from frischs' annual easter coloring contest - it happened to be the same year that my mom's really close friend worked there. and, when t.j. was playing softball i won the split-the-pot at the team's fish fry. immediately upon winning i was informed that proper split-the-pot etiquette is to contribute half of your earnings to the team for donation. if someone on the team  had terminal cancer i would have maybe considered it. going from a shitty pop c.d. to free college just doesn't sound realistic. and let's be honest - rozzy is just a white girl from a middle-class family. i'm pretty sure it would be politically incorrect to grant her a $50,000.00 scholarship. if she had something besides redneck in her, it might be a possibility. 

Pretend I'm an Indian and VOTE FOR ME!
http://apps.facebook.com/gerberphotosearch/entry/39473/rozlyn.aspx